John

by Bookshelf-

Rating: mature
Tags:
Length: 2949

Bb

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2016-10-16 01:40:10 UTC

Brainwashing

Jonothon is to be slime-treated by his Masters, the spiders.

Two high pillars of have been erected where Jonothon is to be given his treatment. He is clothed in nought but a short, thin skintight little cotton shirt. His head has been shaved of all hair except for a little slime-gelled cone of blond hair in the middle of his forehead.

He has been restrained between the pillars with thick, wet tentacles around his legs and arms, his arms are raised at his sides, his legs are wide.

Above his head, a big block of thick yellow slime like vaseline is between the two blocks. Slowly, it begins to descend. Jonathon begs, begs the spiders, his eyes wide and unseeing in fear, but the spiders listen not as Jonothon's lips work desperately to plead, and wail, and promise, his puny little 12-year-old body writhing against the thick, strong tentacles, the naked penis jiggling jiggling, the naked penis jiggling jiggling. The warm, wet smile stinks in his nostrils as it lowers and lowers and lowers.

The spiders squeal with glee as the slime gently touches his head. There is a long, moist squelch as the slime descends softly, yet firmly, slowly sealing his head in a thick, smelly tomb. As he opens his mouth to scream, the special slime begins to push down his throat, he cannot close his mouth.

Gently the slime closes over his cotton-ringed neck, so that his whole head is sealed into the slime's intimate caress. The tentacles release his body, for now they are needed not to ensure Jonothon does not escape his processing. The little boy thrashes and jigs. Hands claw at the slime. Thrash. Jig. Claw. Claw. Desperate. Desperate. But he can escape his smelly fate not.

Gently, his body calms as the slime begins to work upon him. The slime begins to rise again. It lifts the limp, unresisting body high into the air. It begins to rotate the body, slowly, gently.

Soon the belly is plump and swollen with slime. The treatment is gentle and slow and intimate. Jonothon's pert little 12-year-old body is still very calm and well-behaved as he is given his treatment. His hands claw and twitch delicately against his thighs, his legs jig in a soft, spastic jigging to the rhythm of his purification. Jonothon's body shows almost no sign of the horrible, smelly things which are being done to his soft ickle brain.

Jonothon is being chemically lobotomized, slowly and gently and exquisitely. His head-meat stinks like free will and boy-thinks. He knows not that a preteen boy must think of nought but serving his Masters. Jonothon shall be chemically sterilised of his impure human thoughts until his head-meat is clean and correct and obedient.

For many hours the smelly little preteen boy dangles and spins and stinks and robotises. Jonothon needs to be given a lot of slime to sanitize his brain. It must be pumped, and pumped, and pumped into his little body. The slime is very clever. It gives its' special juices and chemicals to his brain, then the slime is pooed out in thick logs of rich, brown sludge so that more slime can be pumped into the little boy's body!

The slime is very smelly when it comes out the back. The crack between Jonothon's nice, round, cute little boy-tushy fills with slime, the backs of his smooth, supple legs are wet and slimed as it gently slides from Jonothon's sweet, tight little underage bumhole. It is for this reason that he is clothed not beneath the hips- otherwise his panties would just fill with boy-soil! With no clothing upon his hips, the soil simply falls upon the floor!

The place where Jonothon is being processed is hot and moist, and soon his body stinks of B.O. and nightsoil and Lobotomising slime. For many hours his body twitches and stinks, until his brain has been washed, and purified, and corrected. It now knows nought but obedience to the Spiders. It realises that the spiders are right to correct his brain, for his brain-thinks were impure and soiled before. Jonothon wishes to do nought but serve.

Slowly the slime descends. Jonothon’s head is freed of the block. It is still jellied with slime. His eyes are milky white. The mouth is a puckered O shape, gently gurgling slime out as the body begins to serve his new masters. The spiders click with glee.

Cooking

I was in a small chamber with leather padding upon all surfaces. I was wearing a skintight cotton shirt, it itched and stank like I had never stank before. I was clothed not below the hips, nought but the thin, smelly cotton covered my pert little twelve-year-old body except for a tight metal ring around my neck, covering my whole neck, very tight, making my breath gurgle a little.

Sniff. Shirt stinks. Stinks. Stinks. So smelly. So smelly. Stinks make me gurgle. Stinks make my brain spasm a little. Hands try to rip it from my body. No. No. As soon as my fingers grip the damp cotton I see a xenomorph through a small window in the cell door.

His little hands grasp a knob on the wall, his little hands turn it slightly. The metal ring around my neck begins to throb a little. Suddenly I cannot think properly. My brain feels like it is being mushed a little.

Little gasps escape my lips, oooooooohhhhh, aaaawhhhh. Hands go to the neckring, grasp, grasp, grasp. Cannot take it off. The knob is turned further. Brain begins to spasm.

Hands claw at ring. Desperate, desperate. Claw. Claw. Frantic, frantic. Claw. Claw. Cannot. Think.

Brain feels like it is being gently tenderised. Breath begins to gurgle.

Lips. Pout. Throb. Throb. Eyes. Bulge. Throb. Throb.

I stagger around the cell, hands grasping spastically against the ring. Hands scrabble. Shirt stinks. Frothy dribble slops from juicy lips. Lips babble nonsense sounds. I can feel myself becoming brain-damaged. Brain tissue is gently being sanitized. Gently being neutered. Gentle being sterilised by the throb. Throb. Throb. Throb. Rhythmic. Rhythmic. Throb. Throb.

Dribble slops onto my twitching penis, it is already wet and frothy, it is becoming spastically erect as my brain is gently lobotomised. Head twitches. Hands still grasp and scrabble at the ring.

Grasp-grasp. Throb. Throb. Scrabble-scrabble. Throb. Throb. Hands become jerky and spastic. Throb. Throb. Hands fall to sides. Brain is being cooked. Throb. Throb. Babbling turns into long, frothy gurgles. Brain cleansed of knowledge of how to make words.

I try to beg the xenomorph, beg. Beg. Beg but my tongue can do nought but poke stiffly against my bottom lip, I go muuuuuuhhhh, muhhhhhh, muhmuhmuhuhuhmuhhhhhhh. Throb. Throb.

Eyes roll. Froth thickens. I can smell the Xenomorph’s hot leathery body now. His mighty hips rock back and forth a little, making deep rubbery squeaks. I put my hands together as if to pray, to beg, beg, beg no more brain damage. Plead. Plead. Beg. Beg. Hands spack together. Spasms. Spasms. Hips. Rock. Rubber. Squeak. Rock. Squeak. Rock. Squeak. Rock. Squeak. Rock. Squeak. Leathery alien hands turn the knob more. Throbbing gets louder and faster and stronger. THROB.THROB. Hands suddenly claw. Body stiffens. Body twitches harder. Eyes roll further. Foam begins to spurt. Body starts getting smelly. THROB. THROB.

I MUUUUUUUUH MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUH pleading, pleading. Throb. Throb. Cannot think. Brain being pureed. Head-meat being cooked, treated. Cock stinks. Tongue thrashes.

THROB. THROB. I am on my back now. Hands spack against each other. Brain cleansed of knowledge of how to use body. Tongue thrashes about in mouth, poking bottom lip right out. Bumhole loosens. I soil myself. Brain cleansed of knowledge of how to control chocolate lips. Spastic twitches wrack my body. Body dances. Body jerks. The Xenomorph’s hand moves to his giant slime-crusted cock as I spasm about in my own faeces.

Thick foam like mousse spurts from throat. Wet green boy-soil filths cute round little boy-muffin as I thrash and jiggle in it. Violent spasms. I spasm onto my front. Face plunges into a big pile of thick poo. Head goes up, spastic, spastic, head goes down, spastic, spastic. Up. Up. Down into my nice pert soil-brownie. Again. Again. Again. THROB. THROB. Squelch. Squelch.

I am almost braindead. Brain activity has almost stopped. The Xenomorph pumps and pumps the crusted leathery hood over his mighty cock-tip as he pervs on my spastic robothrows.

Mouth is full of faeces. Lips stink of poohole. Shirt stinks. Butt-crack shitty. As he watches my eyes roll right back into my head he enters the chamber.

I am still alive, but my brain has been pulped, softened, neutered. I am a vegetable. My brain is nought but a lump of meat now. Cooked. Treated. Prepared for my Master to feast upon.

I gurgle slowly, quietly, body calm and still. The ring has performed it's wonderful work. No more throb. No more brain-thinks.

The Xenomorph picks my lifeless body up, slimy with faeces and froth, he faces it away. He continues to pump his cock into his other fist. His inner mouth pokes into the back of my sterilised head, it eats and eats and eats through the flesh and bone until it reaches the tenderised brains, my brains have been cooked and prepared like an aphrodisiac. The cooked head-meat of a preteen Boy is a great delicacy to Xenomorphs!

The Xenomorph begins to feast, feast, feast, scooping, gorging, slurping. He pulls my ragdoll body back until his wet cock-tip pokes into my slimy, sweet tight virgin little underage bumhole. Hips rock. Mouth slurps. Cock-tip thrusts. thrusts. Faeces lubricates. Penis enters bum-hole. Penis. Thrusts. Mouth. Feasts. Hips. Rock. Cock. Thrusts.

The softened, treated head-meat tastes so, so exquisite to the Xenomorph. They make the Xenomorph feel good. His feast makes his erection so, so stiff and ready and good. Makes the wrinkled leathery ball-sack bulge with slime.

Feast. Feast. Thrust. Thrust. Squelch. Squelch. Suddenly thick spurts of greasy slime pump from the wrinkled weewee-hole, there are deep, long, leathery squeaks as the slimy glistening balls squeeze and squeeze. His tongue licks into my empty head. He fills me with his love-slime.

3

A boy named Jonothon lies face down on a stone table. He is only fourteen. He wears nothing but a short, tight, thin, white little cotton nightshirt. The shirt is almost skin tight around his body, damp with sweat. It is buttoned right up to his neck, forming a tight seal around his neck. It has very short sleeves and comes to just above the cheeks of his rectum. He wears nothing else but a pair of thin cotton ankle warmers. His body is strapped down to the table with thick strands of slime across his shins and thighs. The legs are spread wide. Jonothon no longer struggles. His body is weak. He has been shaved of all hair. His skin is smooth, and supple. There is a groove in the table for him to slide his little penis into. His rectum cheeks are stiff and smooth. They are perfect and round. They quiver gently, separated and exposing his tight, pink little bumhole. Sweat glistens over the skin, and trickles down into the crack. Gently the sweat trickles over the tight, pink lips of the bumhole. He knows nothing of sex. His bumhole is for pooing only. But the master will show Jonothon a new and better use for it. He is an innocent boy. Every night he must sleep in the tight shirt. He must never take it off. He is a smelly little boy. He is damp with sweat. In his fear he has twitched himself until he stinks of warm, moist BO. His body is slimy with it. He is afraid. He can smell his stink. His eyes are wide and staring. His breathing is fast and his mouth is open. He knows his fate. The wall in front of him is mirrored, and he stares at himself, but his eyes do not see. He is too scared. Jonothon stinks in the hot room as thick beads of sweat trickle over his skin. He sniffs his stink. He waits in terror.

Behind him, a low sucking noise gradually becomes louder. Jonothon’s eyes widen. He tries to escape. His penis wanks gently as Jonothon twitches forwards, futilely trying to free himself of the slime. It becomes stiff with sexual excitement, hard and slimy. Gently, spunk pumps from the stiff, horny penis. But Jonothon does not notice his orgasm as the jism sticks to his shirt. His brain is soft and prepared. He thinks only fear. The brain bug slowly approaches behind him. Jonothon watches in the mirror. Slowly, a long, semi-transparent tube erects from the brain bug’s puckered bumhole-like mouth with a gentle, wet skwidging. It erects above his rectum. A huge spike bends down from the front. The pipe has a thick, meaty stink. Droplets of thick, stinking slime drip from it, onto his purt bottom cheeks, trickling down the crack and making it smelly. Jonothon watches the spike, mesmerised by it. His breathing becomes very fast. Suddenly, the brain bug slams the spike down. Jonothon screams in pain as the spike thrusts deep into his hole. The front of his body twitches into the air in pain, supported by the arms, in a spasm of obedience. Slime from the spike collects around the lips of the bumhole as the spike slides inside, and trickles slowly down the crack. The cheeks are pushed apart by the thick, wet pipe. For a few agonising seconds the spike is slowly pushed deeper up Jonothon’s sweet, tight, pink lickle bumhole with a slow, wet squeak. The boy’s eyes roll in his head as he squeals. His hole becomes wider, and wider. But his real suffering begins as the brain bug begins to suck through the hollow organic tube. Jonothon’s eyes slowly begin to bulge. His breathing becomes loud and slow. A gentle sucking noise begins as Jonothon’s brain is slowly, gently sucked from his head. The brain is sucked out as a thick meaty soup as it is sucked up the pipe. Small chunks of brain can also be seen as Jonothon’s head is scooped clean of meat. His eyes roll up into his head, leaving only the white balls glistening in his head. Foam pumps from his open mouth, thick white foam like chocolate mousse. There is no hope for him now. Froth. He froths. His body steams as he stinks, wracked with spasms. It twitches and spasms rhythmically. He gurgles gently in a continuous stream. He can no longer breathe. He can no longer think. There is not enough brain left to think. Slowly he dies. His brain is almost all gone. The pipe sucks harder and harder and pushes slowly deeper. His body spasms. His penis spunks as it wanks to a spasm.

Then it is over. Jonothon’s head is clean. His body twitches upwards with the suction. His eyes are rolled into his head. The foam still pumps. Only the spike in the lips of his rectum keep him animated. The rest is spasm. Then the pipe twitches up, out of the rectum, it steams and stinks of hot brains and slime and faeces. Jonothon flops back to the table, dead. His body still twitches slowly. The brain bug places a piece of toilet paper between the still-quivering butt cheeks, over the open, steaming bumhole and wipes it clean of slime and B.O. and brain. Gently he wipes Jonothon’s mouth clean of foam, and then wipes the smelly mixture onto Jonothon’s tongue. Jonothon is now pure. But the Master is not finished with Jonothon yet. The brown soup of Jonothon’s brain is pumped down a pipe from the Master’s bumhole, into the brain bug which controls the Master. The brain bug begins to cook Jonothon’s sludgy brain, conditioning it until it is a thick green slime. The brain bug pumps the slime back down the pipe into the master’s bumhole, into his testicles. The master’s penis erects, the leathery skin squeaky. He mounts Jonothon’s body. His thick, leathery penis pushes slowly into Jonothon’s wide, steaming butt hole. It is lubricated by the liquid brains sticking to Jonothon’s bumhole. He begins to thrust. He pushes until the whole mighty shaft slides inside, and the tight, wrinkled, leathery testicles gently bounce and jiggle underneath Jonothon’s open bumhole. They bulge with the slime for Jonothon. The hot, slimy bumhole hugs the master’s cock tightly. There are soft, wet slaps and skwidges as the cock thrusts in and out, filling Jonothon’s hole with stiff wet leather. The balls jiggle and dance in triumph. The Master thrusts long and hard. His penis feels good up Jonothon. Gently he presses close to Jonothon, his tight buttocks pushing so hard, the muscles rippling across the erotic butt as it pumps up, and down in such dominating strokes. Suddenly he orgasms, pumping the thick, warm slime into Jonothon in long, hard spurts. His tight, sweaty, dripping balls clench tightly with a gentle leathery squeek as they push the slime up to be pumped out the bell end. He orgasms long and slow, enjoying the orgasmic feel of tight and wet, the juice dripping from my hole. Jonothon twitches as he is given the Master’s slime. More froth. More stinks. Slowly the thick sludge fills his head, his new brain. Gently it begins to take control of Jonothon’s body, burbling slowly down his spinal cord. He will think only what the master wants him to think. He will do only what the Master commands. He is a robotised slave. He shall obay. He shall obay.